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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24087982">all over</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/myeyesarenotblue/pseuds/myeyesarenotblue'>myeyesarenotblue</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempted Murder, Child Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Minor Character Death, Murder, Pre-Canon, no beta we die like ben</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:09:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24087982</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/myeyesarenotblue/pseuds/myeyesarenotblue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold stares deep into Hargreeves’ eyes, savors the hint of curiosity in them. “I was born on the same day as the academy kids,” he says, voice flat and carefully level. “I have powers, just like them. I’d like to stay here”  </p><p>Hargreeves straightens up very slowly, reaches for the monocle resting on his bedside and puts it on with all the care in the world.  </p><p>There’s a pregnant pause.  </p><p>Painstakingly long.  </p><p>But then he tilts his head, looks him in the eye. “Very well” </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>113</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Free</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>has this been done yet</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bruise on his arm was just starting to heal.  </p><p>It’s probably stupid, but the bruises on his arms bother him a whole lot more than the ones on his face- they're both awful, but- when’s he’s got a black eye he can just avoid mirrors, keep his eyes on the sink when he’s washing his hands, do his hair in front of a blank wall. He can pretend they aren’t there as long as he can’t see them.  </p><p>But then, the bruises on his arms- </p><p>Those ones are always there, on display, for anyone to see.   </p><p>He’ll wake up in the morning, groggy and half-asleep, and he’ll go to rub the sleep out of his eyes, to stretch, to change out of his pajamas, to do anything at all, really, and- and those <em> bruises </em> are all that’ll greet him.  </p><p>He doesn’t like them. He might go as far as to say that he hates them.  </p><p>The bruise on his arm was just starting to heal.  </p><p>He stares at it, at the ring of purple around his wrist. In the shape of fingers, of course, a handprint, because what the hell else could it look like? Yellowish and green around the edges, a deep red where it’s newer and raw.  </p><p>It burns, aches dully.  </p><p>He stares at it.  </p><p>A muffled shout, <em> “Harold, hurry up with that beer!” </em> </p><p>But Harold doesn’t move an inch.  </p><p>He’s thinking he’d usually flinch, jump half a foot in the air and hurry the hell up, sprint towards the kitchen, the fridge, and then back towards the living room. He’d do it fast as he possibly could, hoping that maybe- <em> just maybe </em>, Dad won’t hit him again.  </p><p>This one time, he doesn’t move an inch.  </p><p>He’s thinking- </p><p>He’s thinking he doesn’t want a ring of bruises around his wrist ever again.  </p><p>And it’s-  </p><p>It’s a good thought. A thought as good as any.  </p><p>He’s had that exact same thought a thousand times before, usually in between sobbing and crying and wondering if this one time his nose is broken or if the bleeding and throbbing is just worse than usual for whatever reason. Except all those times that he’s had that exact same thought-  </p><p>He never let himself wonder any further, think about certain- <em> possibilities </em>.  </p><p>It’s just a thought.  </p><p>Simple.  </p><p>Shapeless.  </p><p>Then he can’t help but let his mind wander back to earlier today, to the way Hargreeves reacted to him and his pleas. It was humiliating.  </p><p>Mortifying.  </p><p>The single worst thing that’s ever happened to him </p><p>And he-  </p><p>He thinks he doesn’t want to be humiliated like that ever again, either.  </p><p>He doesn’t deserve to be treated the way he’s treated, not by a long mile. He’s strong, and determined, and he does everything right. He doesn’t deserve to be treated the way he’s treated. It’s almost <em> ridiculous </em>, the way people seem to enjoy walking all over him. </p><p>He-  </p><p>He doesn’t want any of that anymore.  </p><p>He keeps thinking-  </p><p>There’s always a possibility, there’s always something he could do.  </p><p>It’d be so, <em> so </em>simple.  </p><p>Dad hurt him.  </p><p>Hargreeves hurt him.  </p><p>Scratch that-  </p><p>Hargreeves <em> crushed </em> him, took everything he’s ever cared for and stomped all over it, called him weak and ordinary and powerless, took the one thread he was hanging from and slit it in half, and just for that, Hargreeves deserves pain and endless suffering.  </p><p>But-  </p><p>Not really.  </p><p>Not really, because Harold can’t quite bring himself to hate him.  </p><p>He couldn’t.  </p><p>Not knowing what he knows.  </p><p>Hargreeves said the thing he did out of ignorance and impatience, and Harold is a firm believer that people always deserve a second chance.  </p><p>The thing is, Hargreeves is wrong.  </p><p>Harold was born on the 12th hour of the 1st day of October, 1989.  </p><p>There’s a fire in him.  </p><p>He’s thinking he doesn’t want a ring of bruises around his wrist ever again. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* </p><p> </p><p>It’s easy, to do it.  </p><p>And by the end of it he can’t help but take a second to breathe out and revel in the fact he never will have to fetch another beer ever again, never will have to cry himself to sleep, to wash dried blood off all of his favorite shirts in the bathroom sink.  </p><p>No more bruising. </p><p>He’s free.  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>* </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s even easier, somehow, to break into the mansion late at night.  </p><p>There’s only a flimsy little lock on the door. They really should invest in some sort of security system- any crazy person could bolt right in and attack them while they sleep.  </p><p>It’s almost too easy, a flick of the wrist, a deep breath out, and suddenly the thing is flying open. Then he’s walking through the grand foyer, intimidating and large, it’s walls littered with pieces of décor that are probably worth more than everything he’s ever owned put together. It leaves him breathless. It’s too perfect, too easy.  </p><p>It’d probably be the easiest thing he’s ever done if it weren’t the body, its dead weight holding him back. Harold’s truly too small to be carrying around a grown man. </p><p>But it had to come with him.  </p><p>He breaks in, dragging his father’s body through the halls. He’s watched enough interviews and grainy footage to know more or less where everything is situated inside the house, and so he finds the room he’s looking for in no time.  </p><p>He drops the dead thing, charred and deformed, at the foot of the bed.  </p><p>Hargreeves snaps awake.  </p><p>He stares at him, at the body, for a long time.  </p><p>Harold doesn’t love being scrutinized, but he understands, of course he does.  </p><p>There’s a fire in him, burning from the inside out, and he can feel it coming out in waves, heat and endless cold, and indescribable sensation. He flexes his fingers tight into a fist, and he can feel that fire, new and exhilarating.  </p><p>It must be quite the sight to see, all that power coming out of him- Harold knows it’s more of a feeling, rather than something observable, always has been. But this one time, though, he-  </p><p>It’s the strongest he’s ever been.  </p><p>There’s a faint glow, coming out of his fingertips, pale and ghostly, almost white.  </p><p>Harold stares deep into Hargreeves’ eyes, savors the hint of curiosity in them. “I was born on the same day as the academy kids,” he says, voice flat and carefully level. “I have powers, just like them. I’d like to stay here”  </p><p>Hargreeves straightens up very slowly, reaches for the monocle resting on his bedside and puts it on with all the care in the world.  </p><p>There’s a pregnant pause.  </p><p>Painstakingly long.  </p><p>But then he tilts his head, looks him in the eye. “Very well” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Number Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The body is taken care of.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold’s instructed to shower. There are pieces of ash and charred meat clinging to his clothes, and his hair, and Hargreeves informs him he does not want any of that mess to end up staining his chairs or his carpets.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Harold showers.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he comes out, there’s a uniform laid out for him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This one time he does look at his reflection, and it doesn’t bother him, to see the split lip or the black eye, when the mirror shows him exactly as he was always supposed to be.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He adjusts the tie, the blazer, the shoes, and by the time he’s sitting down in an expensive chair in front of Hargreeves’ desk, he feels like he’s about ready to burst with anxious energy, thoughts and questions threatening to spill.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he stays still, waits to be addressed.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me about your powers” Hargreeves says, first and foremost. He pulls out a red notebook and a fountain pen, waits expectantly.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold shrugs. “I’m not sure what they are,” he admits, because it’s true. “It’s just like- like something was boiling up in my chest and then when I let it out, it- it burns. Like fire, or- electricity, maybe? I don’t know. I haven’t used them much”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hargreeves nods, scribbles something down.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When did they first manifest?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I- uh,” Harold frowns, tries to remember. “I’m not- I'm not sure”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean you’re not sure, boy?” Hargreeves barks, and Harold flinches back. “How can you be unsure, anyway? It’s a simple question. Did they manifest since birth? Since you were a toddler? A specific age? Surely you must remember </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I- I don’t know!” Harold says, hurried. “I can’t-”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks, and he thinks, but nothing comes to mind.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Where his powers always there, dormant?  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Could be. But-  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t remember being conscious about them until he was much older, much less </span>
  <em>
    <span>using</span>
  </em>
  <span> them. If he had known he had powers since he was a baby then he would’ve made sure his life was different since the beginning.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then again-  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That feeling, in his chest.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s always been there.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up, shrugs helplessly, nervously. “I don’t know when they first manifested”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hargreeves levels him with an unimpressed look.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snaps his red book shut, drops it on the desk forcefully. “I see now, that attempting to question you was a foolish idea,” he says, matter of factly. “You’re failing to answer even the most basic questions about your ability. How do you expect me to train you, if you know nothing?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold’s instinct is to apologize.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But why would he?  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Is it really his fault, no knowing these things?  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe if you had done a better job at collecting the babies when we were born we wouldn’t be here right now,” Harold says, sounding bolder than he feels. “You’d have studied me. And you’d know everything about my powers, including when they manifest for the first time”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hargreeves stares at him, and Harold stares back.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then Hargreeves huffs, looks away. “We won’t get anything done this late at night,” he says, going to stand up. “Tomorrow morning you may meet the children, I suppose. We’ll start your training right away- it'll have to be intensive, considering all the time you’ve missed”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold nods, and now he’s feeling enamored all over again.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets to be a part of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Umbrella Academy- </span>
  </em>
  <span>he gets to be special, and extraordinary, and grand. He gets to meet the children and live among them, become one of them.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s exhilarating.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>insane. </span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want a superhero name,” Harold blurts, digging his fingers into his thighs. “It’s- it’s the only thing that’s missing. I need a superhero name if I’m going to become one” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hargreeves frowns, raises an eyebrow. “That’s just nonsense. You do not need a superhero name, and you won’t be getting one”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold breathes in, breathes out. “I want a number then,” he says, so very slowly. “I need something. I can’t stay here and be </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harold, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that’s- that’s not how superheroes work”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hargreeves stares at him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wonders what he’s thinking.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then- “You shall be Number Eight”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold blinks up at him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Eight?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”  </span>
</p>
<p><span>“You heard me. </span><em><span>Number</span></em> <em><span>Eight”</span></em><span> Hargreeves says, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Now come along, I’ll show you to a bedroom”  </span></p>
<p>
  <span>Harold stands up swiftly. “No, no, hold on- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eight</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hargreeves huffs. “Yes, boy. What’s so difficult to understand?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s-” Harold starts, awkwardly. “Shouldn’t it be Number Seven? There are only six kids”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then Hargreeves sighs heavily, crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m afraid there is a Number Seven already. However, she’s not- I won’t have the public knowing about her, just as I won’t have the public knowing about you while you’re so unequipped” and he grabs Harold’s shoulder, starts guiding him out of the office. “Now come along. To bed”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold nods dumbly.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Let’s himself be pushed around.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Number Seven</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>* </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The very next day a woman shows up, introduces herself as Grace and announces he is to have breakfast with the children. With the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Umbrella Academy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Harold gets to the table, he spots her immediately.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Number Seven.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows it’s her because she’s the only he can’t recognize, of course. She’s standing there, at the head of the table, wearing a plaid skirt just like the one Number Three wears. Harold stares at her for a long time before properly walking into the room, trying to memorize her factions, her brown eyes and brown hair, the shape of her nose.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s very pretty.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s almost as pretty as Number Three.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harold, sweetheart” Grace says, squeezing the back of his neck. “Why don’t you go take a seat? We don’t want your food to cool down”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold steps out of her hold, nods.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He walks into the dining hall very slowly.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d be lying if he said he didn’t get a thrill, right there and then, at the way every single member of the Umbrella Academy stopped dead in their tracks, froze, turned their heads, followed him with their eyes until he reached his seat.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold walks into the dining hall and he feels the best he’s ever felt in his entire life.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ends up right in front of Number Four, next to Number Two, next to the mysterious Number Seven, and then he realizes with the number of chairs plus the number of people at the table, he’s probably going to sit </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> where Number Five used to sit before he disappeared. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold smiles up at the faces around him, big and bright.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hargreeves’ seat is opposite to Number Seven’s. He doesn’t smile back.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one speaks for a long while.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Number Two is squeaking out an undignified noise, turning to Hargreeves. “Dad, who the hell is this?” he barks, and doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns to Harold. “Who the hell are you?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Number Two!” Hargreeves hisses. “You know I won’t tolerate such foul language!”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What- y-you’re not serious, are you?” Number Two says, and Harold’s vaguely annoyed at the way he undermines Hargreeves’ authority, the way the thought of apologizing doesn’t seem to cross his mind for even a second. “There’s a random kid in here and you expect us to pretend nothing’s happening?” he turns back towards Harold. “Who the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold smiles, stands up straight. “I’m Number Eight” he says, easy and simple.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Number Seven chokes out an aborted noise beside him, too low to be a whimper. The other kids have similar reactions, but Harold turns to look at her and no one else.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She squirms under his gaze.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s truly pretty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Number Four cackles madly, the sound overly loud, echoing, and pulls Harold’s gaze to the rest of the table. “Oh, that’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>mindfuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harold- doesn't quite glare, but-  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Two squeals. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Number Eight?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Three squeaks out, more or less at the exact same time as One’s panicked and slightly muffled, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Dad?”</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Hargreeves crosses his arms over his chest, doesn’t react any other way.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A beat or two go by.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then, “What the fuck,” Number Two says, oddly flat, staring at nothing with a horrified expression on his face. “That’s just- what the fuck- what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual</span>
  </em>
  <span> fuck? Dad, Dad- are you- are you going fucking crazy? Are you senile?”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Diego</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Number Six hisses, shooting him a sharp look.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An exasperated groan. “Don’t act like this is normal. This is not- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Number Eight</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Ben” he spits out, all high voice and wild gestures. “Who the hell is he even supposed to be? Are we supposed t-to just-”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s enough, Number Two” Hargreeves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s an edge to his voice that leaves no room for argument.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Number Two shuts up.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Now, this is-” Hargreeves says, and he points at Harold, frowns lightly, looking a little lost as if he genuinely cannot recall his name. “This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harold.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harold Jenkins. He is to be Number Eight from now on and shall join your activities as soon as possible. He’s one of the 43”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What-?” </span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re not-” </span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“What the hell is that-” </span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Dad, you can’t just-” </span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Silence!” Hargreeves barks, and everyone falls quiet. “You’re forbidden from discussing this any further! Now eat your breakfast!”  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone sits down at their chairs so very slowly, and Harold happily follows suit.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. I'm special, like you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>y'all i wrote this whole fic beforehand and then literally forgot about it 😩😩😩  why am i like this</p><p>also i literally wrote this on a whim back in MAY so like,,,,, i literally don't even know what's in this, I refuse to reread it, my word document is called "evil harold"</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Training goes about as right as Harold expected it.  </p><p>He can’t really do much on command and it’s disappointing but not disheartening. Now that he’s training, he’ll get better in no time. He just knows it.  </p><p>Hargreeves forbids him from attending group training, because apparently the rest of the kids have been doing what they do since they first learned what to walk and Harrold would just get on the way and manage to get himself hurt somehow. </p><p>And now, <em> that </em> is disheartening.   </p><p>But Harold smiles and toughs it out, stands on the sidelines and tries to feel grateful he at least gets to watch the actual Umbrella Academy go about their day and do their training exercises. It’s fascinating to watch. There’s far more hand on hand combat than the news and the press and the comics make it out to be. They barely even use their powers at all.  </p><p>Which, of course, makes Harold wonder why can’t join in.  </p><p>But-  </p><p>He wants to listen. To do things right.  </p><p>So he watches from afar, next Hargreeves, next to Number Seven- and he’d talk to her and ask her a million questions, but turns out one of Hargreeves’ rules is to not speak unless spoken to, to not make a single noise he doesn’t deem necessary.  </p><p>His way is brutal, and fast paced, and almost cruel, and Harold <em> loves </em> it.  </p><p>He makes the kids run in circles for hours and then some more up and down a staircase, he, makes them do crunches and sit ups and jumping jacks, he makes them throw hits at a punching bag until their knuckles are bleeding, he makes them practice all sorts of ridiculous pirouettes, he pairs them off and makes them spar until a half of the pair is on the verge of unconsciousness.  </p><p>It’s perfect.  </p><p>It’s wonderful. </p><p>And the best part?  </p><p>The next day rolls around and it’s all rinse and repeat.  </p><p>He’s informed mornings are for personal training and afternoons are for group training, with a couple hours squeezed in the middle for academic studies. Apparently, each kid gets a day of the week of personal training, with weekends left for whoever needs some extra help- except Hargreeves announces that very same night he is going to focus on Harold and no one else for the time being.  </p><p>He gets his own personal tutor, coaching him, and helping him, and then he gets to walk among all of the Umbrella Academy members.  </p><p>It’s the life he always wanted.  </p><p> </p><p>* </p><p> </p><p>Harold gets the impression he isn’t very well liked.  </p><p>He wonders why that is.  </p><p> </p><p>* </p><p> </p><p>On Saturday morning, he strolls into Hargreeves’ office, ready to start his training for the day.  </p><p>He’s turned away.  </p><p>“But why?” Harold asks, scandalized, knowing that he’s whining but not caring either way.  </p><p>“Because you are exhausting, child” Hargreeves says, scoffing, remarkably unkindly.  </p><p>Harold blinks up at him.  </p><p>Hargreeves waits a beat, rolls his eyes. “You’re <em> all  </em>exhausting,” he clarifies, as if that was any better. “I need a break from you. It’s called free time. I’m sure you had plenty of that in that life of sloppy hedonism of yours.” </p><p>“Oh,” Harold breathes, blinking. “I- I don’t-”  </p><p>“What’s so difficult to understand?”  </p><p>“Nothing! I just-”  </p><p>“Get out of my office,” Hargreeves says, his voice cold and belittling. “I don’t want to even remember your existence until after dinner time.”  </p><p>Harold- doesn't really move. “But-” he stammers, hastily. “But what am I supposed to do?”  </p><p>Hargreeves stares at him straight in the eye. “I don’t know and I don’t care. Now, <em> please, </em> get out of my sight.”  </p><p>And so Harold gets out of his sight.  </p><p>He walks out of the office, shutting the door behind him a little too harshly, the sound of it echoing and loud. It’s not like he can actually see it- but he pictures Hargreeves scowling, and huffing out. Angry.  </p><p>But angry about what, anyway?  </p><p>Angry that Harold wants to practice and train and get better? Become an asset for the Umbrella Academy?  </p><p>It’s ridiculous, that Hargreeves believes in things as stupid and useless as free time. Even if it’s just such as small amount of time, even if it’s the one day of the week in which he allows it- it's still a giant waste of time. They could be doing something, working.  </p><p>It’s completely pointless and stupid.  </p><p>Harold can barely believe that Hargreeves would indulge in such idiotic things.  </p><p><em> (It only serves to remind him of Dad and his beers and his lounging, his senseless rules that only ever benefited him and his need to sit down in front of the television-) </em> </p><p>He breathes in, breathes out.  </p><p>He heads towards that one hallway on the third floor, where the kid’s bedrooms are. Not his- his is tucked away in a corner of another floor. </p><p>He might as well do something useful.   </p><p> </p><p>* </p><p> </p><p>There, he finds six shut doors.  </p><p>Which-  </p><p>Isn’t all that surprising, if he’s being honest.  </p><p>Not that he agrees with the sentiment, but he can more or less understand that they’d want some time for themselves, away from each other. There’s barely any privacy, here.  </p><p>He walks through the hall, very, very slowly, taking in every single detail he can muster. There’s not much. Every single door is identical to the next, wooden and solid and dark.  </p><p>There are colorful posters lining up the walls.  </p><p>They explain, crudely, how to punch and kick and disarm.  </p><p>Harold crouches down in front of a particular one. <em> Gauge </em>, it reads, proceeded by a cartoonish drawing of a child mimicking the motion of gauging out a grown man’s eyes.  </p><p>He stares at it.  </p><p>He curls his fingers just like the picture, and he tries to imagine himself in a situation where he would need to do that, and he would do it, and he would feel so grateful he saw this poster and took the time to learn the motions, and everyone would adore him and worship him, and he would be a savior. No one would ever diminish him, ever again. He’d be- </p><p>There’s a noise. </p><p>A small noise, like the dull echo of a voice, and it pulls him out of his fantasy.  </p><p>And he’d- he’d be mad about it, but it can only come from the inside of one of the bedrooms, and that’s why he came here in the first place, to explore and to talk.  </p><p>He stands up, follows the noise.  </p><p>It comes from a shut door in the end of the hallway, one of the two tilted towards one another. He stands still, and he listens, and he decides it’s coming from the door in the left, and it’s definitely several voices having a conversation in hushed whispers.  </p><p>He knocks twice.  </p><p>A beat. </p><p>Two.  </p><p><em> “Not now, Vanya!”  </em> </p><p>Harold, frowns, wonders, knocks again.  </p><p><em> “Vanya, I swear to-”  </em> </p><p><em> “Oh my god, just let her in. I feel like this actually concerns her, anyway.” </em> </p><p><em> “What? It’s not like she-” </em> </p><p>A different voice. <em> “God, I hate you both” </em> </p><p>Footsteps.  </p><p>The door swings open.  </p><p>Number Four stands there, staring at him with a mildly bewildered expression on his face. Further into the room, Two and Three, in the middle of attempting to glare each other to death. One and Six are there, too.  </p><p>“Oh,” Four says, dumbly. “I thought you were-”  </p><p>And he trails off.  </p><p>Harold doesn’t move an inch.  </p><p>Instead, he takes in the bedroom, the entirety of the Umbrella Academy lounging around. There are a lot of pictures of space and the stars and the moon, little trinkets modeled after rocket-ships and satellites strewn around.  </p><p>It’s Number One’s bedroom, Harold decides. Spaceboy. He can’t be wrong.  </p><p>Everyone stares at him uncomfortably, shifting with awkward movements and pained expressions, maybe waiting for him to do or say something.  </p><p>He doesn’t.  </p><p>He just stares right back at them.  </p><p>He stares, until Number Two is suddenly standing up and cornering him, somehow managing to look incredibly intimidating for someone his size, and his age. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here, <em> Eight </em> ?” he says, and he  <em> spits </em> out the number, as if it was something shameful, a curse worthy of tears and rage.  </p><p>Harold smiles, doesn’t back away even if Two’s standing a little too close to him. He shrugs. “I’m told Saturday’s are for free time. I thought I’d see what you guys were up to.”  </p><p>Two rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath. “Well- we’re not up to anything, so you can fuck right off, okay?” </p><p>There’s a litany of groans and exasperated sighs after that, as if they’re used and tired of Number Two being so mistrustful and angry and rude, spitting threats left and right-  </p><p>Harold tightens his smile, doesn’t let it waver. “What do you mean?” </p><p>“I mean we’re kind of in the middle of something, so-” </p><p>“So what?” Harold shoots back. “I’m part of the Umbrella Academy now, so I should-” </p><p>But Two interrupts him. “Oh, no. Don’t get any funny ideas, dude. You’re not a part of anything- the only thing you are is Dad’s midlife crisis, alright?” </p><p>Harold swallows, looks down, looks up.  “I’m not,” he says, quietly. “I’m- I’m special, like you. I’m Number Eight! I’m- I’m going to join missions soon, I’m like- like your new brother! I’m going to be known!”  </p><p>A couple moments go by.  </p><p>Harold looks up, and looks at the Umbrella Academy, and looks at their expressions, tense, uneasy, distressed, an uncomfortable mix between regret and plain disconcertment.  </p><p>Number Two scoffs. “You’re not our brother”  </p><p>And he shuts the door, wrestling the knob out of Four’s outstretched hand.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>follow me on tumblr <a href="https://myeyesarenotblue.tumblr.com/">@myeyesarenotblue</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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